Читать книгу Justice for Colette: My daughter was murdered - I never gave up hope of her killer being found. He was finally caught after 26 years - Jacqui Kirby - Страница 9

It was 1961 – the beginning of the Swinging Sixties – and times were good. Elvis Presley was riding high in the charts and change was in the air. A teenage revolution was reverberating through society with clothes, attitudes and music to show it. It would be another two years before the Beatles broke into the charts, singing about love and pleading with screaming girls to let them hold their hands. Expectations were as high as the miniskirts of the women who wore them. It was a buoyant time to be young, free and single. And I was.

I had my whole life mapped out in front of me. I was training to become a hairdresser at a salon in Nottingham. Even though my mother had divorced, she’d scrimped and saved all of her money working as a dressmaker for a local designer to put me through an apprenticeship so that I could have the career of my dreams.

I was just 16 years old when my uncle Joe tried to set me up on a blind date with a boy he knew from work.

‘His name’s Anthony but we all call him Tony,’ he began. ‘He looks like Elvis, but he’s not like him at all. Tony’s a nice lad, very quiet.’

‘I prefer Cliff Richard,’ I said, winking at him, as I busied myself curling my mum Joyce’s hair in the living room.

‘You could do much worse, Jacqui,’ Uncle Joe told me. ‘He’s not like all those boys who like to go out drinking and chasing girls. Tony’s a good lad.’

I finally relented and allowed Uncle Joe to fix me up on a date with this mystery Elvis lookalike.

‘What have I let myself in for?’ I chuckled to Mum after my uncle had closed the door behind him.

I was still a baby really, but I’d never made a secret of the fact that I wanted to settle down young and start a family. I wasn’t like other girls my age who wanted to explore the freedom and the sexual revolution of these new and exciting times. I couldn’t wait to become a mother instead. I was desperate to grow up, get a place of my own and be a good mother – it was all I’d ever dreamed of since I was a little girl.

My father Arthur was the managing director of an engineering company in Nottingham. He had a well-paid job and we – Mum, Dad, me and my younger brother Michael – lived in a house owned by Dad’s company. However, my dad had an affair with his secretary. Mum was heartbroken, and, to rub salt into the wound, he then decided that he no longer wanted us; he wanted a new life with Audrey, his new woman. Dad moved out of our beloved family home and set up home with Audrey, and it wasn’t long before we were turfed out too.

Our family unit had been shattered and we had nowhere to live. We’d gone from a charmed life to brassy broke. In the end, Mum went to live with my grandmother, taking Michael, then aged just eight, with her. Meanwhile, I was dispatched to stay with my mother’s youngest sister Mary. She and her husband Roy had just had their first child – a little girl called Susan – so I helped out with the baby and, as she grew, Susan and I became very close. She was the sister that I never had.

My parents’ divorce happened when I was just 12 years old. Like most girls of that age, I was self-conscious and unsure of myself and, witnessing the mess of it all, I somehow thought I was to blame. Divorce was very unusual back in the Sixties, so I was different to all my friends – when I lost my family unit, it was as though I’d lost my way in life too. Children can take divorce very personally, and I did.

Growing up through this traumatic time made me crave the security of a loving family of my own. It became my dream, my goal. It doesn’t sound very much, especially these days, to admit that all you want to be is a mother and housewife. But I didn’t care about money or belongings. I just wanted to find the man of my dreams, get married and have children of my own to love. Now, four years after my parents’ divorce, aged 16, I now had a blind date to contend with.

There was a knock at our front door. I opened it to find a nervous Tony stood alongside Uncle Joe, who was leading proceedings.

‘Jacqui, this is Tony,’ he said, with a sweep of his upturned palm. ‘Tony, this is Jacqui. There you have it – now you’ve both been formally introduced.’

I looked at Tony. It felt stilted and awkward standing there, and Uncle Joe sensed it.

‘Right, is your mother in, Jacqui?’ Uncle Joe enquired suddenly. ‘I’m gasping for a cuppa.’ With that, he pushed straight past me, leaving me on the doorstep with my blind date.

Tony was tall, dark and handsome and wearing a smart khaki suit that looked very expensive. His black, glossy hair was combed back into a trendy Elvis-style quiff. Still, he looked awkward. He looked down at his feet rather than making direct eye contact. Even so, I knew there and then that he was quite a catch and that I’d be daft to turn this opportunity down.

‘I won’t be a mo,’ I said, grabbing my coat off the peg in the hallway before dashing out the front door to Tony’s car outside the garden gate.

‘Do you fancy a drink at a pub?’ Tony asked as he started up the engine of his dark-green Morris Minor.

I nodded politely and soon we were on our way – I felt as if all my dreams had come true in that single moment.

Tony was 20 years old, and I thought he was the most sophisticated man that I’d ever met. I didn’t drink back then, so, when he asked me what I wanted, I said an orange juice. I felt awkward, young and foolish – a schoolgirl in high heels and earrings. I was so desperate to impress this older, good-looking man that I tried hard to look relaxed and comfortable but I was far from it.

Thankfully, Tony was easy to talk to. We spoke about all kinds of things that afternoon – from my meddling uncle Joe to my work as a hairdresser. Tony explained about his work and told me that he was an only child. Soon the hours had flown past. By the end of the evening, I realised that, while he was shy, Tony was hardworking, fun and had a good sense of humour. In short, he made me laugh. The only sticking point came when I discovered that he didn’t like dancing. It was my one big passion. I’d danced all my life and had even competed at shows for ballroom dancing. But, I reasoned, it was a small price to pay for the man of my dreams.

That evening, as he dropped me back home, Tony bent forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. I felt my face flush as he did so.

‘I’d like to see you again, Jacqui, if that’s all right?’ he asked.

I nodded and we set another date for the end of the week.

That Saturday, I spent all afternoon getting ready. I made sure that I applied my make-up so it looked light and natural and I spent ages blow-drying and styling my hair. My mum had made me a Brigitte Bardot-style dress – it was all the rage at the time. The dress was white and lilac gingham and it had a neat little white bodice stitched on the front. I loved it and felt a million dollars every time I wore it. I slipped on a pair of white kitten-heel sandals and waited by the window, looking out for Tony’s car. Soon, I saw the little green Morris Minor slowly weave its way up our street and park outside my house.

When I opened the door to Tony, I noticed there were two older people sitting in his car – a man in the back and a woman in the front. The woman was staring right at me.

That must be his mother, I thought.

‘Er, you don’t mind if I drop my mum and dad off, do you?’ said Tony. ‘It’s just that I always drop them off at bingo on a Saturday night.’

‘Course not,’ I replied, with a tight smile. But even from where I was standing I could see that Tony’s mother Iris was already scrutinising me, stripping me right down to the bone. I steeled myself as I shut the front door behind me.

Dutifully, I got into the back of Tony’s car. There was obviously a pecking order involved, so I sat next to his father Bernard and made polite chit-chat in the back. We dropped them off at bingo but promised to pick them up later.

We duly picked them up after our date and, as we headed back to my house at the end of the evening, Iris suddenly piped up in the front seat. ‘Let’s all go for a drink,’ she suggested.

Moments later, we pulled up outside the local pub. Once inside, Iris and I found a table and Tony asked what we all wanted to drink.

‘An orange juice please,’ I replied.

Iris looked at me disapprovingly; she was having none of it. ‘An orange juice!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t keep drinking orange juice! You need to let your hair down every once in a while. Have a gin in it. Gin and orange, now that’s a nice drink.’

I did as I was told and drank a gin and orange. It was the most disgusting thing that I had ever tasted. Needless to say, I haven’t touched a drop of gin since.

But his mother wasn’t finished with me. Sipping at her own gin and orange, she sniffed and – in her best posh accent – said, ‘If you hadn’t been the type of girl that we wanted for our Tony, then we’d have done our best to make life as uncomfortable as possible for you.’

I wasn’t quite sure how to reply.

‘As it is,’ she continued, prodding her bony finger against my shoulder, ‘you were scrutinised long before you got in the car that day.’

It turned out she’d been asking lots of people questions about me as soon as she found out I was dating her son. She wanted to know if I was a suitable candidate. I looked back at her in astonishment. I’d only met her son twice. Who was to say that our relationship would last any longer? I knew from that moment on that Iris was a tough cookie and that if I wanted to be with her son then I had my work cut out.

Tony also owned a motorbike, and, one evening, he rode over on it to pick me up from work. It was a bitterly cold night, so cold that everything from grass to pavement was covered in a hard silvery glaze of frost. I was due to stay at Tony’s house for the weekend but I wasn’t dressed for the weather. I was wearing a thin coat, top, skirt and sheer tights. The wind cut through me like a knife as we scooted along the icy roads and back to Tony’s house. By the time we arrived, I was so cold that I couldn’t climb off – my legs were literally frozen against the seat – still bent at the knee. Tony was laughing as I tried to get off but it took me several minutes just to straighten up!

When we finally walked into his house, Iris was waiting for us and she was furious that Tony had been out on his bike in such bad conditions.

‘What’s she doing here?’ she demanded, pointing at me. ‘I’ve told you a million times before about risking your life for other people.’

I loved Tony’s mum in many ways, but whatever I did she always saw me as the woman who would steal away her son, the apple of her eye, the centre of her universe. If I’d been a saint, I still wouldn’t have been good enough for her boy.

Tony and I had been dating for just over a year. One Saturday afternoon, we were walking past a jeweller’s shop when I felt a tug against my arm. Tony grabbed my hand in his and led me towards the large shop window.

‘Here, Jacqui,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something.’

My eyes darted across the rows and rows of gold rings. Jewels of every size and description glinted in the bright sunlight. Tony pointed through the glass towards a modern-style ring with a huge solitaire diamond set on a square base. The precious stone was nestled on a raised golden shoulder studded with little diamond chippings. It looked expensive.

‘Do you like that one?’ asked Tony.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said, not quite catching the tone of his voice or realising what he was inferring.

‘Let’s go in and try it on,’ he suggested.

My heart beat in my chest as Tony led me inside. I’d never been in a jeweller’s shop as posh as this one and I was worried that my nerves would reveal my inexperience and tender age. But, as soon as I slipped the ring on my finger, everything felt perfect.

‘You really like it?’ Tony asked me.

‘I love it,’ I smiled.

‘Well, I’m going to buy that ring for you and then perhaps we could get married.’

With that, he took out the wallet from his inside jacket pocket and began to pay.

I stood there dumbfounded. Was that a marriage proposal?

As I watched Tony count out more than a month’s salary on to the counter in front of me, I knew that it certainly was.

The male shop assistant smiled knowingly as Tony told him to put it in a box. It would be packed away for later until he could summon up enough courage to tell his mother. All the way home from town in his car, Tony fretted about what to say. How would he tell Iris that he was about to leave home and become a married man? Meanwhile, I was worried how she would react towards me.

When we arrived back at Tony’s, Iris was sitting in her usual chair by the fireplace. We began to make small talk about the weather, then suddenly Tony stood up and cleared his throat. I watched as he nervously took the ring box out of his jacket pocket and then I noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.

‘I’ve got something to show you, Mum,’ he said, turning towards her with the open box in the palm of his hand. ‘I’ve asked Jacqui to be my wife.’

The room fell into a deep silence. No one spoke as the words hung in the air between the three of us. His mother’s face was a picture – she was struck dumb by the news. But there was very little she could do about it other than smile. After all, she had guessed that her son had already spent a month’s wages on my ring.

‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ she said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. She cast her beady eyes over the expensive ring, which was still perched in its box.

‘Mind you,’ she said, turning her attentions to me, ‘you can’t have it yet because it wouldn’t be proper, not until you’ve formally announced your engagement.’

So we did. We became officially engaged on 16 May – it was the day of my 17th birthday and the day that I got to wear my ring for the very first time.

Eventually, Iris warmed to the idea of having me as a daughter-in-law and gave us her blessing. The wedding date was set for 27 April 1963. My dream had finally come true.

It was a beautiful crisp spring day when I walked into St Mary’s parish church, in Bulwell, Nottingham, to become Tony’s wife. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

As my parents were divorced and I hardly ever saw my father, it was decided that my grandfather George would give me away. Proudly, he guided me down the aisle towards my husband. Even though my mother was a single parent, she gave me the best wedding day a bride could wish for. She had bought my wedding dress from a designer she worked with. It was white brocade with a double skirt leading to a long train. It had long white sleeves that led to a neat little point over the back of my hands. They fastened around the wrist with tiny looped brocade-covered buttons. The same buttons ran down the length of the dress at the back. It was simply beautiful.

It was all I’d ever wanted – to be married, go on to have a family of my own and be a good mother to my children. But Iris couldn’t help herself – she had to get in just one more dig.

As we left the wedding reception full of excitement and about to embark on our new life together, I heard a lone voice start up at the back. It was Iris – she was singing. Everyone turned to look in astonishment as her voice carried loud and clear across the function room.

‘Oh! Oh! Antonio,

‘He’s gone away,

‘Left me alone-ee-o,

‘All on my own-ee-o.’

She wailed the chorus again and again in her loudest voice. My mother was mortified and later gave her a piece of her mind. Meanwhile, I wondered what my new life had in store for me.

Tony’s dad Bernard was the manager of a chain of mini-market shops. He had heard through the grapevine that a flat above one of the shops was coming up to let. It was small and cramped, with only one bedroom, but it was perfect for a newlywed couple looking for a starter home.

A few months later, we were thrilled to discover I was pregnant with our first child. I sailed through the pregnancy and, as if to perfect the dream, on our first wedding anniversary our beautiful son was born. We named him Mark Anthony Aram.

He was two weeks over his due date but he was long and thin, weighing in at 6lbs 5oz. Back then, this was considered to be just over premature-baby weight. But, at 22 inches long, our son was destined to be as tall as his father.

The birth had been horrendous. The nurses had approached me earlier with a glass and insisted that I drink a foul concoction of orange juice and cod liver oil to bring on the labour. I held my nose as the oily acidic mixture slid down my throat. I don’t know how I kept it down – I had to stop myself from gagging as I swallowed. But, as soon as I held my baby boy in my arms, all of that was forgotten.

Tony was desperately waiting for news back home. In those days, men were not allowed to be at the birth of their children. Instead, they were sent for once everything was over and the baby had been cleaned up and was ready to be presented to its father.

I was 18 years old when I had Mark – in many ways still a child – but now I was beginning a new chapter in my life as a mother.

The three of us soon became a happy family unit. I had already decided when I was pregnant that I would give up my work as a hairdresser and concentrate on being the best mum that I could possibly be.

I adored being a mother and everything that went with it. I breastfed Mark, even though it was fashionable back then to put your baby on the bottle. I’d also sing lullabies to him until he drifted off to sleep. Sometimes I’d just sit quietly, holding him in my arms, watching him sleep. I’d stare at him for hours, drinking in each and every one of his perfect little features. I could hardly believe that he was mine to keep. Motherhood had exceeded my expectations so much so that I decided that we should have another child as soon as possible. I wanted my children to be close so we started trying for another baby.

We didn’t have to wait long. When Mark was a couple of years old, I discovered I was expecting again. I was careful that Mark wouldn’t get jealous or feel pushed out in anyway, so I involved him at every opportunity. As my body began to swell with the new life growing inside it, I would take Mark’s tiny hand in mine and place it flat against my stomach. At first, the baby’s kicks would make Mark jump back in astonishment but soon he loved to ‘feel’ the baby.

‘Is that my baby brother or sister in there?’ he asked, wide-eyed with wonder.

‘Yes, sweetheart, it is.’

After that, every time the baby kicked or moved, Mark would be at my side.

‘Is the baby saying hello?’ he asked one afternoon.

‘It is,’ I replied.

‘Is it today that we are having our new baby, Mummy?’

‘No, not today, Mark, but very soon.’

By this time, we’d moved into a smart little bungalow. Months of dragging Mark’s heavy pushchair had put an end to our days in the little flat above the shop.

In February, I went out shopping with a friend. I’d felt a little odd all day as we walked around browsing at clothes on rails, and, by the afternoon, I felt even odder.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told my friend, ‘but I think I’m going to have to go home now.’

I started to walk home with Mark in his pushchair. The walk into the small town had been downhill all the way, so, of course, getting home was a different matter – all uphill. I had to keep stopping as I puffed and panted for breath, and I was relieved when we finally made it through the front door.

As the evening progressed, I began to feel pain. There was a tightening across my stomach and contractions. By the early hours of the morning, the pain was so excruciating that I called the midwife, who came to check on me.

‘Jacqui, I can’t believe you’ve been out shopping – you’re in labour!’ the midwife exclaimed.

Tony took Mark next door to keep him out of the way and, a few hours later, our beautiful daughter Colette was born. She weighed more than Mark – a healthy 7lbs 15oz, her skin was olive and she had a shock of black hair. She was just like a baby doll – perfect in every way.

When Mark was brought home, as soon as he saw her, his face lit up with wonder. ‘Is that my baby, Mummy?’ he gasped, running over to the cot where his little sister was sleeping soundly.

I smiled and nodded. ‘This is your sister Colette,’ I told him.

‘I finally got my baby today!’ he cheered, dancing around the room. ‘I love her so much, Mummy. I love her and I will always look after her.’

It was a promise Mark would keep – from that moment on, the two of them were always as close as they had been in that special shared moment.

Tony came back into the room. We smiled as Colette nestled peacefully in my arms. Her warm little body rested against my heart linked together forever by an invisible chain of love.

Colette’s hair remained dark and glossy – just like her father’s – and her huge expressive eyes were the colour of dark almonds. She was as pretty as a picture and adored by everyone who saw her.

As they grew, Mark and Colette remained as close as the day she was born. Mark was always very protective of his little sister. It was as though he saw it as his job to look after her – to keep her from harm. They would walk to the local primary school holding hands, Mark guiding Colette every step of the way.

I refused to have a babysitter – they were my children and far too precious to be left with just anybody. Instead, we did everything together as a family. The school was only at the end of the road but, as an over-protective mother, I insisted on walking them. But, as they grew, I knew it was time to start loosening the apron strings, and they began demanding to walk there together. I gave in and allowed it, but I still stood watching from the front doorstep. Sometimes I had to pinch myself – how had I produced such wonderful, caring children?

Of course, they weren’t perfect. Like any brother and sister, they would often argue and fall out with one another. If Mark was watching a boring programme on TV, Colette would giggle and tease him until he got fed up and left the room; that way, she could switch to a channel she wanted to watch. She was also a real practical joker and was always winding her brother up.

Colette adored Mark and would often hang on his every word, but sometimes it was just comedy. One day, when Mark was eight years old, I was cooking in the kitchen and the children were eating at the table. Mark had obviously had a full day of learning at school and was bursting to share his newfound knowledge with his little sister.

As they ate their tea, Mark decided to impart some of his wisdom. ‘Colette, you know the eggs that you eat for breakfast?’

As usual, Colette stopped mid-mouthful to listen to him, and nodded attentively.

‘Well, they haven’t been fergalised…’ he explained.

Colette, not wanting to appear less sophisticated than him at five years old, nodded wisely. ‘Yes,’ she said, all matter of fact, ‘I know.’

She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about (neither did I for that matter. Later we worked out he meant ‘fertilised’), but I had to clasp my hand across my mouth to stop myself from crying with laughter.

The children were quite a team when they put their heads together about something, and they constantly nagged me about getting a dog of their own. I wasn’t so sure but I relented when my mum bought them a gorgeous Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She’d taken them to the local breeding kennels in Stanton on the Wolds, and they picked out the pup that they’d loved the best.

By the time they arrived home, Colette was fit to burst with excitement. ‘We’re calling him Brandy,’ she announced as they ran through the door to tell me the news.

Mark was equally thrilled but Brandy was too young to leave his mother, so it was a few more weeks until we were able to go back to the kennels to collect him. Colette was so desperate to bring the dog home that she counted down every single day.

At that time, we had a huge back garden. I’ve always had a passion for cooking and I use fresh ingredients wherever I can, so I’d insisted that we have our own vegetable patch to grow fresh produce. The garden had a long strip of grass outside the back door, separated by a trellis which gave way to my hallowed vegetable patch. The soil was dark and rich and harboured carrot and runner bean plants. I also had a series of fruit trees, including raspberries and blackcurrants, and nestled right in the middle were my beloved strawberry plants. I lovingly tended them, watering them religiously day and night. The children would look on but I wouldn’t let them taste the fruit until it was ready to pick.

One day, all the ripened strawberries were missing when I went to pick them. It was a mystery. After that, it kept happening. When asked, Mark and Colette denied eating them, yet every time the plants were due to ripen, the berries would mysteriously disappear. I began to think that we had a poacher sneaking into the garden at nightfall. It was a complete mystery until one afternoon when the children caught the culprit red-handed – a shame-faced Brandy, tucking into the crop straight from the plants. The brown and white fur around his mouth was stained bright red with sweet, sticky strawberry juice!

As the children became more independent, I decided that I would take a part-time job to make life easier and help pay towards a few luxuries such as school trips and holidays abroad. I also wanted to be a good mum and be there for them. So I planned my working day accordingly. I would work in a local hairdressing salon three days a week until 3.30pm, but I’d always be there when Mark and Colette came home from school at 4pm.

With less of me around, Mark and Colette got their heads together again and hatched a plan to go horse riding. It wasn’t cheap but I was steamrollered into letting them go.

‘I’ll speak to Dad,’ I promised, but they already knew that they’d won me over.

Tony agreed, and soon they were going for their first lesson. They took to it like ducks to water.

‘Look at them,’ I commented to Tony, as we stood proudly watching them. ‘You wouldn’t get me up there in a month of Sundays, but they look so comfortable – they’re naturals.’

And it was true, they were. Soon the children looked forward to their Saturday-morning horse-riding lessons. I wanted to give them a perfect childhood filled with lots of happy memories, as far removed from my own as I could get.

On the way home in the car, Mark and Colette would compare notes and chat about the lesson. Listening to their excited chatter and looking at the joy on their little faces made my heart swell with pride.

Soon the children were experts at riding. At that time the stable owner, Bob Humphries, had decided to introduce jousting. The children were too young to take part but we would all go as a family to watch the instructors dressed in their heavy and cumbersome chain armour suits, a look of determination on their faces as they tried to knock their opponents from the rival horse.

We now seemed to be eating, sleeping and breathing horse riding. But, like all good things, it came to an end. One Saturday morning we took them along and we were told that they were ready to start competing at show jumping.

‘Soon, they’ll be able to compete in gymkhanas,’ the instructor enthused.

I heard Mark sigh heavily behind me. He wasn’t keen. ‘I just want to ride, Mum,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to do any competitions.’

He was worried that he would be forced to do something that he really didn’t want to do, and, by the end of the lesson, his mind was made up. Mark decided he didn’t want to go riding any more, and told me so in the car on the way home.

I glanced over at Colette, who was unusually quiet. ‘And what do you want to do, love?’ I asked.

‘Er, I’ll try it and see how I get on,’ she said, but it was obvious that, without her big brother at her side, the magic had gone.

Colette did return the following Saturday, but without Mark it wasn’t the same and she decided that she didn’t want to go back.

When Mark was 12, the children’s beloved dog Brandy passed away. They missed him, especially Colette, who was broken-hearted. In the end, the following Christmas, we decided to buy her a little Yorkshire terrier, which she called Mitzy. Soon she and Mitzy were inseparable and went everywhere together.

From the age of ten, Colette followed in my footsteps quite literally and took up ballroom dancing along with ballet and tap. Soon she was entering competitions in outfits made by my mother, who was such a talented dressmaker. Over the years, thanks to Mum’s dazzling outfits and her own talents, Colette won several medals and diplomas, all of which took pride of place on our mantelpiece at home.

During the long, warm summer holidays, we would pack up the car, drive to the east coast with Mitzy in tow and stay in my mother’s bungalow in Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire. By this time, Mum had remarried, to a man called Ron Twells. It was good to see her happy once more. When Tony and I had to return to work, my mum and stepfather would look after the kids at the bungalow so they could enjoy the rest of their school break.

Despite the fact that my mum and dad had divorced years earlier, we were still on good terms with his sister, my aunt May. She and her husband Ken lived in London and we would travel down as a family to stay with them for long weekends. Ken and May were childless and so looked upon Mark and Colette as the closest thing they had to a family of their own. They adored the children and would spoil them with gifts. Colette and Mark loved to stay with them in London, and it wasn’t long before they soon made friends with other children in that neighbourhood. To them, it was home from home and they never got tired or bored of going down to visit.

Eventually, May and Ken sold their bungalow in London, and decided to move up north to be closer to us. They found a lovely property in Keyworth, Nottingham, just a stone’s throw from where we lived at the time. We were delighted.

‘This way we can see more of the children,’ May told me.

I was thrilled to have them close by and they soon became very important in all our lives.

The children would nag me to go on school trips and, providing the money was there, I let them. Although money was often tight, Tony and I always tried to give them as much as we could afford. We also had a strict rule – we would never give to one without giving to the other. Everything was fair and equal, as it should be.

‘There’s no price on a life of happy memories,’ I insisted.

It was true; I wanted my children to experience all the wonderful places in the world that I could only dream of going to.

Both children went on exchange trips to France and then, in return, the children they had visited would come and stay with us in England, which was always an experience.

Once Mark had a French pen pal called Eric come to stay during the summer months. Eric was tall and slender with a nest of tight curly blond hair. He was a nice, polite boy but he also had very peculiar eating habits.

One Sunday, we sat down to a full roast dinner with all the trimmings. Yorkshire puddings, mashed potato, beef and roast potatoes all jostled for position on the plates and everything was covered in rich dark gravy.

But Eric wasn’t happy. ‘Do you have any mayonnaise?’ he asked politely.

I looked at him blankly. ‘Um, yes, somewhere,’ I replied. ‘Why?’

‘Because I always have mayonnaise with my dinner,’ he explained.

The children sat open-mouthed as I went to the kitchen cupboard and retrieved a jar of mayonnaise from the back. We all watched as Eric pulled out a huge spoonful and proceeded to coat his entire dinner with the stuff.

I gave Colette a stern look across the table. She was pulling a face of disgust but I could also see that she was about to collapse into a fit of giggles at any moment. She saw me and looked back towards her own plate and kept quiet.

After that, Eric demanded mayonnaise with every meal – it didn’t matter if the food was already covered in thick gravy or tomato sauce, he just had to have it. In the end, I got so fed up of fetching the darn thing from the kitchen that I left the jar permanently on the dining table. It remained there throughout his fortnight’s stay.

Colette had a particularly lovely pen pal called Therese and the two became great friends. They wrote to each other for years and remained very close long after their exchange trips.

When the kids weren’t at school, they would play with friends at their houses or in our back garden. It was the unwritten rule that I always knew where they were – I didn’t want my children roaming the streets. I always liked to know that they were happy and safe.

Besides dancing, my other great passion was cooking. I’d often be found in the kitchen surrounded by children baking cakes and buns, with flour and icing sugar spilled over the floor and every available kitchen surface. Colette and Mark loved to cook too, so I would often hold baking sessions in the kitchen. My friend Sue Copley lived two doors away. Sue didn’t like to bake, so I’d invite her two children Melanie and Jason to come over too. Jason and Mark would stand on one side with Colette and Melanie on the other. It would be girls versus boys in the bake-off stakes and, after watching my demonstration, they couldn’t wait to get stuck in themselves. Colette’s cakes were always the best of the group – she just had a natural talent.

After a while, the other children tired of cooking, but not Colette. She kept it up and would bake for Tony, Mark and me. When I was younger, my father refused to eat anything that I’d cooked, so it was important to me to recognise and give encouragement when the children made us things. I would insist that we would all sit down as a family to taste whatever Colette had made that day. Sometimes the food wasn’t very appetising – particularly when she tried to experiment with different herbs and spices – but whatever Colette made, be it a cake, a tart or a simple hot pan of fresh soup, we’d always praise her for her efforts. It also made her happy to see the pleasure in other people’s faces as they tucked into something she’d lovingly prepared.

Sometimes I’d catch myself in this happy family scene. I was living in a perfect bubble in the middle of my dream. I was blessed with a lovely family and an adoring husband – what more could anyone want? We had so much fun together – they were the happiest days of my life, if only I could turn the clock back to those precious moments, rewind and live through them just one more time.

The years flew by and soon the children had grown into teenagers. Before long, it was time for Mark and then Colette to sit their exams.

Mark had always wanted to work with electrics. He worked hard and was lucky to secure an apprenticeship at Blackburn and Starling, a local electrician firm.

Colette had it in her mind to become a nurse. She was such a caring girl so it was a natural progression for her to want to do such a worthy job. She spoke to her teacher at school and was sent on work experience at Saxondale Hospital, just outside Nottingham. In those days, it was a mixed hospital but it also had a psychiatric unit, which treated people who had suffered nervous breakdowns. I worried about her safety but Colette gently reminded me that this would be exactly the environment that she would be asked to work in when she became a nurse. However, when she returned home after her first day, she seemed somewhat down in the mouth.

‘What’s the matter, love? Didn’t you enjoy it?’ I asked.

Colette shook her head sadly. ‘No it’s not that, Mum, I loved it, but I’ve been told that I can’t study to become a nurse until I’m at least 18.’

Colette was 15 years old and three more years seemed like a lifetime away to her. She was heartbroken but she also didn’t want to wait.

‘If I can’t be a nurse, then I’ll try my second option,’ she announced.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘A hairdresser, like you, Mum.’

I had mixed feelings about Colette following in my footsteps. Hairdressing wasn’t all glamour; it was long hours, standing on your feet all day. But I also didn’t want to discourage her from doing something that she really wanted to do.

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ I said.

‘I’m sure,’ she grinned, wrapping her arms around my neck and giving me a hug.

We lived in Keyworth, Nottingham, and in the middle of the village was a parade of shops – one was a hairdresser called Salvatore. It was run by a wonderful, flamboyant Italian of the same name. Salvatore took to Colette immediately and offered her an apprenticeship starting the following year, when she had finished her school exams. I have never seen my daughter more thrilled. What’s more, she’d won it entirely on her own merits.

That September in 1982, Tony and I decided to go to the South of France for a two-week break. Mark was almost 17 years old by then and decided that he was far too grown up to go on holiday with his parents.

‘No way!’ were his exact words. He stayed at home and my mum, aunt May and uncle Ken popped in every day to check that he was OK.

In the meantime, we enjoyed our fortnight’s holiday with Colette and her school friend Amanda. We had no idea at the time, but it would be the last holiday we would ever share with our treasured Colette. For two weeks, we were blissfully happy, unaware of the horrors that were yet to come.

We stayed in an apartment in Cap d’Agde, then a new and up-and-coming resort, a five-hour train ride from Paris and just a few miles from Montpellier. It boasted its own beautiful manmade marina, which moored some of the biggest yachts I’d ever seen. We would walk along there most evenings to have our dinner at one of the little restaurants situated on the waterfront, close to the harbour.

During the day, Tony and I would laze on the beach while the girls went off to explore. On one of the first days, Colette and Amanda ran back along the beach with something to tell us, but they collapsed with a fit of giggles and couldn’t talk straight away. After a while, they calmed down enough to tell us what was so funny.

‘You’re never going to believe it,’ exclaimed Colette, ‘but there are loads of people down there a bit further along the beach and they’ve got no clothes on – not a stitch!’

Amanda looked at me and nodded in confirmation.

‘What!’ I gasped.

‘It’s true, Mum. There are men along there playing badminton but they’re not wearing any clothes – everything is just … well, it’s just bobbing about!’

With that, she started laughing again, unable to control herself. Amanda joined in, and the two of them had tears rolling down their cheeks.

‘Never!’ I said, covering my open mouth with my hand.

‘If you don’t believe me, then come and have a look for yourself,’ Colette insisted.

We walked along the beach for a few minutes until we wandered deep into the group of naturists. Sure enough, they were all naked. Most were men and they were all playing badminton!

‘See,’ Colette whispered. ‘Now do you believe me?’

At that moment, a man walked towards us with his little dog. Colette covered her mouth and buried her head deep into my shoulder to stifle her laughter. The man had the brightest carrot-ginger hair I’d ever seen. He was thin, with a puny physique and he was naked – his bluey-white skin almost glowed in the bright sunshine. He stood out like a sore thumb against the other bronzed naturists. The man was completely starkers apart from a pair of sad-looking sandals that flapped against his feet. A thin brown lead fell limply from his hand and was attached to a little yappy dog with white and ginger fur.

‘Look,’ said Colette through snorts of laughter, ‘they match!’

Soon Amanda, Colette and I were laughing so much that some of the naturists had put down their badminton racquets and had begun to look over at us. We turned and beat a hasty retreat along the shoreline and back to the safety of Tony and the sun loungers.

Lying in the sun wasn’t enough for the girls, and they wanted to try their hand at windsurfing. One day, Tony and I paid for them to have a go. I can still picture Colette as she tried to stand up on the board, laughing so much that she would send herself slipping off it and into the sea. Then, despite herself, she would haul herself up and try once more – most of the time she couldn’t get back on to the board for laughing. We were in hysterics just watching her from the comfort of our sun loungers.

Colette saw us and ran back on to the beach. ‘I’m exhausted,’ she said, flopping down on a nearby towel, baked warm and dry from the hot midday sun.

‘You’re quite the expert,’ I teased.

Colette rolled her eyes and laughed. Once she was dry, she ran back into the sea towards Amanda with her board to have another go.

She spent more time in the water than the windsurfing board itself. It still makes me smile to think of her happy in the sunshine, free from cares and worries – two weeks of bliss, never wanting to return home.

But return home we did, and Colette was due to start her final year at school before she embarked on her new and chosen career.

A few months later, in January, the phone rang. It was Salvatore, who wanted Colette to go and see him at the salon. We were puzzled as she wasn’t due to start her apprenticeship until the summer.

Less than an hour later, Colette walked in through the front door. She was in floods of tears and was inconsolable.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I asked, holding her in my arms. I’d never seen her so upset.

It took a few minutes for Colette to compose herself. Her chest was heaving with big heavy sobs, as through her tears she began to explain that Salvatore had decided that he was going to sell the hairdressing salon.

‘So there’s going to be no apprenticeship, no position and no hairdressing job for me,’ she sobbed.

‘It’ll be OK,’ I soothed.

But Colette’s heart was broken. To her this was the end of the world, and she fled to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. But hours later, despite my assurances that something would come up, I could still hear her crying.

The following morning at breakfast, I tried to speak to her. ‘Colette, you’ve got a while before you finish school – at least six months, something else will come up.’

But she was barely listening; she was devastated. First the nursing and now this. I didn’t know what to do to make it better.

Later that day, Colette went to visit May and Ken in a bid to cheer herself up. She told them what had happened at the salon and how Salvatore was selling up. She was still feeling fed up when she came home a few hours later.

A few days later, I dropped by to see Ken and May. We were discussing Colette’s predicament and I told them how upset she had been. ‘I’ve never seen her like this – it’s as though the wind has been stolen from her sails,’ I sighed.

Aunt May thought for a while. ‘How about we buy the salon and then Colette can have her apprenticeship?’ she suggested.

I looked at her in astonishment. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You can’t do that – it’s too much, it’ll cost a fortune.’

But May was adamant and so was Ken. Colette and Mark were the closest thing they had to children of their own, so why not let them help out and keep it in the family? As it turned out, they’d already decided and had made the necessary enquiries. They had it all worked out.

‘I could manage it,’ May explained, ‘Ken can do the maintenance on the shop, you can work there and Colette can have her apprenticeship after all. It’s perfect. Then, when she’s fully trained, we could give her the salon – it would secure her future.’

Ken nodded in agreement. ‘We’ve been looking for an investment,’ he said, ‘and this is it.’

And so it was decided. All we had to do now was tell Colette.

That teatime, when I returned back home, Colette was mooching around the house – she’d been like that since she’d received the news about the job.

‘Aunt May and Uncle Ken are popping by to see you later,’ I called to her.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know. They want to see you about something,’ I said, trying not to give too much away in my voice. It was Ken and May’s job to deliver the exciting news.

Shortly afterwards, there was a knock at the door. It was my aunt and uncle. We called Colette down and she glumly walked into the front room. Her face was still crushed with the disappointment of the week before.

‘Aunt May and Uncle Ken have something to tell you,’ I began.

Colette looked at them quizzically.

‘We’re buying you the salon; that way you can have your apprenticeship and eventually run the shop!’ May told her.

Colette’s mouth fell open in disbelief. She gasped and clasped her hand over her mouth. Her brown eyes lit up with excitement, as she looked from Ken and May to me.

I nodded. ‘It’s true, what do you think?’ I said.

‘Really? That’s brilliant!’ Colette gasped, running over to hug them. Her eyes were full of tears but this time they were tears of joy.

‘I just can’t believe it. Thank you. Thank you so much,’ Colette said again and again.

At last, my daughter’s future was secure, or so we thought. After that moment, Colette was back to her old self. She was excited and was looking forward to starting her new career.

Salvatore sanctioned the sale and, as part of the deal with May and Ken, it was agreed that Colette would help out after school and on Saturdays. She began her training. She did everything from taking phone calls to making tea and coffee. If she wasn’t sweeping up hair from the floor, she’d be at the sink shampooing customers. She loved every minute and relished every moment in her new role.

One of the benefits of being a teenage girl working in a hairdressers was that Colette also got to try out all the new hairstyles for free. One day, she returned home from work and shot past me quickly in the hallway. She had her head bowed and I was immediately suspicious.

‘Wait a minute, young lady,’ I said. ‘What’s that at the front of your hair?’

As Colette turned to face me, I gasped. The front of her beautiful dark glossy hair had been bleached within an inch of its life. In its place was an awful custard-coloured yellow fringe the texture of frazzled straw!

‘Oh, Colette,’ I sighed, ‘What have you done?’

But Colette remained defiant. ‘I like it,’ she sniffed.

I shook my head. It looked awful. ‘Colette, it looks horrible, like a line across the front of your head. You’ve got lovely hair – you don’t need to do that to it.’

But Colette insisted that the custard-coloured fringe was here to stay. ‘It’s fashion, Mum,’ she said.

‘Well, if that’s fashion, you can keep it.’ I retorted. ‘It looks, well, really cheap – and you’re not cheap, Colette. Please dye it back again.’

I was begging her but she was already halfway up the stairs.

‘I’m in hairdressing, Mum,’ she said crossly. ‘What do you expect?’ With that she slammed her bedroom door.

In April, we celebrated Mark’s 19th birthday. Most people gave him money because boys that age are hard to choose presents for. Mark decided to buy a dog with his cash. He was working by now, so I reasoned he could afford to keep his own dog. He went to some kennels nearby and soon returned with a gorgeous Old English sheepdog.

‘I’m calling her Zara,’ he told us.

Colette adored Zara and was always making a fuss of the dog. She still had the hated hairstyle but I was working slowly to convince her to dye it back to its natural state.

A few days later, Colette was playing with Zara when Mark picked up the camera from the side unit. ‘Here, let’s get a photograph,’ he said.

Colette momentarily looked up; Mark pressed the button and the shutter snapped shut. There she was happy and smiling, frozen in time, frozen in that moment forever and ever. Little did I know then that this was to be the last ever photograph taken of my beautiful daughter and one that I would treasure during the long torturous years that followed. How I have wanted to pluck Colette from it and pull her back into my arms. I have held it to my heart countless times. It is my most treasured possession.

At 16, Colette was a child in a growing woman’s body. She held the innocence and untarnished optimism of a child. She’d spent her entire life surrounded by love and she in turn loved those who surrounded her. She’d never been exposed to violence or horror and therefore trusted others – she thought everyone was as lovely and pure as she was. She loved life and, in turn, it loved her back.

We’d protected her all her life: she was her father’s little princess, Mark’s wonderful younger sister and my angel – an extension of me – she held my heart and soul in her hands. Colette brought a bright, warm and wonderful light into our lives. Unbeknown to us, that vibrant light was about to be extinguished forever.